Batman 6 - The Dark Knight (12 page)

H
arvey Dent became the flavor of the week. The story in the
Times
was picked up by other papers, including some from other nearby states The three local magazines did pieces on Dent, which prompted the big television stations to pay attention. The Harvey Dent story was featured on all the cable news outlets and even merited a thirty-second spot on two of the networks’ evening news shows. Every report mentioned the usual kinds of stuff, Dent’s law-school career, his uprooting of corrupt cops and, of course, the biggie—his courtroom heroics after Rossi pulled his ceramic gun, caught by a spectator with a camera phone who made enough selling the image to pay for her daughter’s Ivy League education. And they all showed pictures of the Dent visage; the racket-busting DA looked even better on television than he did in person.

One of the more prominent talking heads ended his nightly cablecast by staring into the camera, radiating his usual steely sincerity, and telling the nation: “We’re sick of it, aren’t we? You know what I’m talking about. The stink that’s been coming from the corridors of power for years, from the domed havens of the panderers and pimps, from the courts, the cop houses, the capitals, and the Long Shore mansions. It reeks, and I want to puke, and I’m betting you do, too. The people of Gotham City—I know they want to puke, because plenty of them have told me so. They’re so desperate, those Gothamites, that they adopted a hero. Did I say hero? What I mean is,
buffoon.
I mean, ask yourself, what kind of man dresses up in a funny suit and a mask? Yeah, you got it—a
buffoon
! But now, hey—take a look. Gotham’s got itself a
new
hero, and this one’s the genuine article. No cape and pointy ears on this guy. He wears a suit and tie, and he’s plenty smart in the book sense of smart, but he can handle himself on his feet, too. A creep named Rossi learned that the hard way when he pulled a gun made of some sort of Silly Putty and got his clock cleaned by a sweet right cross. And who threw that kayoer? The man I’ve been talking about, Gotham City’s
real
knight in shining armor, District Attorney Harry Dent. Fly away, batty boy, Dent’s gonna get the job done.”

The following night, the talking head apologized for calling Harvey “Harry,” but the apology wasn’t really necessary. Everyone who saw the show and could possibly care knew who he meant, and a lot of people agreed with him.

Alfred Pennyworth did not agree, but his boss did.

“I think the only buffoon involved here is the one making the noise,” Alfred said.

“I think there’s a lot in what he says,” Bruce said.

Alfred waited for Bruce to elaborate, and when that didn’t happen, excused himself to attend to household chores.

Harvey Dent didn’t agree with the talking heads either. He didn’t express his reservations publicly and, in fact, cooperated with the media’s veneration of him. He didn’t accept invitations to fly to New York, Chicago, Atlanta, or Los Angeles to be interviewed face-to-face, but he did allow a few camera crews into his office and apartment, and twice traveled to local studios for remote interviews being conducted by people hundreds of miles away.

Driving away from one of those, he confided to Rachel, who was at the wheel, “They’re wrong about Batman . . . at least, I think they are.”

“Want to tell my why?” Rachel asked.

“From my new vantage point, my new job, I can see the limitations of what I do. Rachel, the corruption in this town is so deep, so pervasive . . . it’s in the air we breathe. And I can’t beat it. There are places I can’t go, things I can’t do. I’m like a surgeon who’s only allowed to cut skin deep. I’ll never get to the cause of the problem.”

“You believe in the law . . .”

“Yes! Yes, I do. But I’ve come to see that it has limitations. First, we need to rid ourselves of the corruption, because as long as we’re corrupt, the law can’t function. When the evil’s gone . . .
then
the law takes over, restores order, creates the climate in which civilization can flourish. But not until the evil’s gone.”

“I’ve never heard you use the word ‘evil’ before.”

“Dammit, that’s what it is. I’m sick of euphemisms. Evil I said, and evil I meant, and we have to cleanse ourselves of it.”

“How does Batman come into this?”

“As a partner, I hope. I said there’s a limit to what I can do, operating on my side of the law. The same is true for him. We have to work together, Batman and I.”

“You want him to be your shadow?”

“Exactly. A good way to put it—my shadow. He goes where I can’t, he does what I shouldn’t. Using what he gives me, I go into court and do what
he
can’t. Together, we clean up Gotham.”

“Suppose you do? What happens to Batman when you’re finished?”

“Good question. I wish I had a good answer. I’d like to believe he’ll survive, maybe just go away and never be seen or heard from again. But we all take our chances.”

Rachel was silent for the rest of the drive.

The neighborhood around the Thomasina Arms had once been what the newspaper columnists of the day called “swanky.” But that was years ago. Now, it had deteriorated to a welter of shabby rooming houses, cheap bars—a region of darkness, not least because every one of the streetlamps had been shattered, either by bullets or rocks. The Thomasina Arms—the “Tommy,” as locals called it—had gone from being the home-away-from-home of visiting dignitaries to a single-occupancy hotel frequented mostly by dreary individuals who did not want to be seen any more than was necessary.

But it did have metal detectors, and some of the burly men lounging in the lobby had bulges under their jackets. The Chechen and another man moved through the detector under the impassive gazes of two Chinese with pistols shoved into their belts.

The Chechen turned to the man beside him. “You Gambol? From east side?”

“Yeah,” Gambol replied. They went to a shadowy flight of stairs and trudged up to a kitchen on the second floor.

Inside, there was a small table, its surface scratched and discolored. Around it sat an ethnically mixed array of middle-aged men, most of them wearing expensive suits. Two Chinese, who could have been twins of the pair at the metal detector, brought in a television set, put it on the table, plugged it in.

“The hell is this?” Gambol demanded.

The television screen flickered, brightened, then everyone was staring at the face of Mr. Lau. Several of the men around the table rose from their chairs, muttering complaints.

“Gentlemen, please,” Lau said, his voice pitched low, barely audible. The men who had risen resumed sitting, and Lau continued: “As you’re all aware, one of our deposits was stolen. A relatively small amount—68 million.”

“Who stupid enough to steal from us?” the Chechen yelled.

“I’m told the man who arranged the heist calls himself the Joker.”

“What the hell is
that
?”

Sal Maroni, who had been sitting with a surly expression on his face, said, “Two-bit whack job wears a cheap suit and makeup. He’s not the problem—he’s a nobody. The
problem
is our money being tracked by the cops.”

Lau said, “Thanks to Mr. Maroni’s well-placed sources, we know that police have indeed identified our banks using marked bills and are planning to seize your funds today.”

Everyone in the room began to shout.

The Chechen’s voice was loudest: “You promise safe, clean money launder.”

Lau waited for the noise to abate. Then he said, “With the investigation ongoing, none of you can risk hanging on to your own proceeds. And since the enthusiastic new DA has put all my competitors out of business, I am your only option.”

“So what are you proposing?” Maroni asked.

“Moving all deposits to one secure location. Not a bank.”

“Where, then?”

“Obviously, no one can know but me. If the police were to gain leverage over one of you, everyone’s money would be at stake.”

“What will stop them from getting to you?” the Chechen demanded.

“As the money is moved, I go to Hong Kong. Far from Dent’s jurisdiction. And the Chinese will not extradite one of their own.”

It started as a giggle and grew to a chuckle, then the Joker stepped from an adjoining room, his laughter becoming a shriek.

He stopped laughing, and said, “I thought
I
told the bad jokes.”

“Give me one reason I shouldn’t have my boy here”—Gambol indicated a bodyguard with a jerk of his thumb—“pull your head off.”

The Joker took a freshly sharpened pencil from his hip pocket and placed it, eraser down, on the table. “How about a magic trick?” he asked brightly. “I’ll make this pencil disappear.”

Maroni’s thug lunged. The Joker sidestepped, gripped the back of the thug’s head, and slammed it down onto the pencil. The thug’s body went limp and slid to the floor.

The pencil was gone.

“Magic,” the Joker declared. “And by the way, the suit wasn’t cheap. You should know.
You
bought it.”

“Sit,” the Chechen said to the Joker. “I wanna hear deal.”

“A year ago, these cops and lawyers wouldn’t dare cross any of you,” the Joker said. “What happened? Did your balls drop off? See, a guy like me—”

“A freak,” Maroni said.

The Joker ignored him and continued, “A guy like me . . . I know why you’re holding your little group-therapy session in broad daylight. I know why you’re afraid to go out at night.
Batman.
He’s shown Gotham your true colors. And Dent’s just the beginning.” He pointed to the television set. “And as for his so-called plan—Batman
has
no jurisdiction. He’ll find him and make him squeal.” He smiled at Lau’s image on the screen. “I can tell the squealers every time.”

“What you think we should do?” the Chechen asked.

“It’s simple. Kill the Batman.”

“If it’s so easy, why haven’t you done it already?” Maroni growled.

“Like my mother used to tell me, if you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

“How much you want?” the Chechen asked.

“Half.”

The men around the table laughed.

The Joker shrugged. “You don’t deal with this now, soon Gambol won’t be able to get a nickel for his grandma—”

Gambol bolted to his feet.
“Enough
of the clown.”

He came around a corner of the table and stopped. The Joker had opened his coat, revealing explosives strapped to his chest.

“Let’s not blow this out of proportion,” the Joker said.

Gambol moved a step closer. “You think you can steal from us and just walk away? I’m putting the word out—five hundred grand for this clown dead. A million alive, so I get to teach him some manners first.”

“Let me know when you change your minds,” the Joker said, and strolled from the room.

“How soon can you move the money?” Maroni asked Lau.

“I already have. For obvious reasons, I couldn’t wait for your permission. But rest assured, your money is safe.”

Sal Maroni decided he didn’t like some fruitcake he knew nothing about sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. He knew this private eye, ex-cop, kicked off the force for taking bribes, not for lack of ability. Ability-wise, he was as good as they get. Name of Hamlin. Did some jobs for Sal now and then. Charged plenty, but always delivered. Sal called Hamlin and said,
I wanna know everything about this Joker down to his shoe size
and Hamlin said,
Gimme a couple weeks, I’ll be in touch.
A couple of weeks passed and Hamlin called.
I ain’t found anything yet, gimme a little more time.
Sal gave him a little more time. A week later, Hamlin showed up at the club in the middle of the afternoon, drinking coffee from a plastic cup and looking like hell. He needed a shave and a haircut. He had lost weight, and his suit was wrinkled and hanging off him, his tie had a big gravy stain on it, and there were dark bags under both eyes
. . . I dunno where to go next. Three weeks now, I been looking at this Joker and know what I see? Nothing. Driving me nuts. You sure he’s real? You ain’t imagining him, are you? ’Cause it’s like he popped up outta thin air or something.
Sal didn’t like what he was hearing, said,
You ain’t messing with me, are you? I’m thinking maybe this Joker gets to you, slips you a little something to keep your mouth shut,
and Hamlin said,
You know that ain’t me, Sal, hell, you and me, we go back,
then Hamlin started to laugh, and the laughing got louder and pretty soon it wasn’t so much a laugh as it was Hamlin gasping for air. Hamlin was choking, his eyes were bulging, his face was crimson. Sal yelled to a waiter to get a glass of water, but by the time the waiter came with it, Hamlin was dead.

Sal had his own personal doctor do an autopsy, but he should have saved the money. It didn’t take a medico to figure out that Hamlin was poisoned by the coffee he was drinking, anybody could’ve seen that, and as for the rest . . . Okay, the poison was some kind of stuff you can only get in China, Tibet, Korea, one of those places, and who cares?

Harvey Dent had been standing on the roof of police headquarters next to the searchlight, which was sending its beam into the sky for twenty minutes when he suddenly realized that he was not alone.